Claire didn't go to work the next day.
She told herself she was sick — that the nausea twisting in her stomach and the pounding in her skull counted as illness. But the truth was simpler: she was afraid.
The note from the night before lay crumpled on the kitchen counter.
You should have saved him.
She had thrown it in the bin twice. Both times she'd dug it back out again. It was still there now, smoothed flat beside her tea, a thin scar of black ink cutting across the page.
Outside, rain hammered against the windows. The storm had rolled in overnight, gray and relentless. It suited her mood too well.
She moved from room to room, restless, checking locks, peering through curtains. The man from the lobby haunted her thoughts — the smell of smoke, the way he'd said her name.
Had he really said it?
Or had her mind filled in the sound?
At noon, she sat on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, staring at the silent phone on the table. No new messages. No missed calls. For a moment she felt foolish
The phone buzzed once, then stopped.
The screen lit up: Unknown Number.
Her thumb hovered over it. She didn't want to look. But she couldn't not.
A new message appeared.
"Stop pretending."
No punctuation. No name. No explanation.
Claire's chest tightened until she could barely breathe. She wanted to throw the phone, to hurl it through the window and watch it shatter on the street below, but she didn't move. She sat frozen, watching the message blink on the screen as if it might change, as if it might offer something more.
Stop pretending.
The words rolled over in her head like an echo she couldn't silence. Pretending what? That she was okay? That she didn't remember the fire?
A drop of sweat slid down her temple. The apartment felt too warm, too small.
She stood abruptly, pacing. The air hummed faintly — the refrigerator, the lights, her own pulse roaring in her ears. Then she froze.
Something was off.
The framed photograph on the wall — the one of her parents' old house — wasn't straight. She was certain she'd aligned it days ago, maybe weeks, perfectly centered above the couch. Now it hung slightly askew, as if someone had brushed past it.
She moved closer, her heartbeat drumming in her chest. The frame wasn't just tilted. It was cracked — a fine line running diagonally through the glass.
Her stomach dropped.
She reached out to straighten it. Her fingers brushed something cold behind the frame.
Another note. Folded neatly.
She snatched it out, pulse thrumming in her ears, and unfolded it with trembling hands.
"He's closer than you think."
Her knees nearly gave out. She stumbled backward, clutching the paper.
A sound broke the silence — faint, distant, but unmistakable. The creak of a floorboard from the hallway outside her apartment.
Someone was there.
She turned off the lights, plunging the room into shadow. Her breath came shallow and fast. The only sound was the rain whispering against the window.
The hallway creaked again.
Then — a knock. Soft. Deliberate.
Three times.
She didn't move. Couldn't.
Another knock. Louder this time.
Her phone buzzed again in her hand. She nearly dropped it. She glanced down, her vision swimming.
New message: "Open the door."
Her breath hitched.
Slowly, trembling, she looked toward the door.
Through the peephole, the corridor was empty.
But when she turned back, her living room light flickered — once, twice — and died.
The darkness swallowed her.